


Precious Moments

by AlyKat



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Family time, I have accidentally created a Notting Hill -Verse, M/M, Though pretty sure the Verse ends with these ficlets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:12:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyKat/pseuds/AlyKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of related drabbles starting at Halloween and going through until Christmas; generally featuring Phil and Clint's son, Milo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Most Wonderful Time of the Year

**Author's Note:**

> Barnes and Noble has switched to full-time Christmas music...and Hobby Lobby (where I work) started tossing Christmas music into the mix at 7pm on Halloween. So, because of this, I've started coming up with ficlets. And want them to involve a kid, so I created a little 'verse so I could have Milo come out to play. Enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas starts early in the Coulson home.

Clint sighed as he flopped back onto the couch. His feet and knees were killing him after hitting the streets for the entirety of the trick-or-treating hours set up by City Council. He was glad that five-year-old Milo had such a good time, and that his costume was so well received (apparently zombie-hippie-doctors were pretty unique. Who would have thought?); now he was glad it was all over and that Phil was on hand to wash all the special effects make-up off their son and put him to bed. 

He could hear the giggles from upstairs and couldn’t help the smile stretching lazily over his face. Milo had been such an incredible gift and blessing in their lives. It wasn’t hard to find someone willing to be a surrogate for them, though it did take a bit of debate over which one of them would be offering up a “donation” to be used. Honestly? Clint was so insanely happy that Phil lost the debate and that their son now had the same expressive grey eyes and soft, silky brown hair like Phil. The little boy was almost a near perfect mixture of both Clint and his husband, though they decided that came from upbringing more than anything else. 

Warm and comfortable on the couch, Clint was just starting to drift off when he heard quiet steps coming down the stairs. A soft smile spread across his lips as he pretended to be asleep, even though he knew Phil would be able to tell instantly that he was faking it. Clint was a horrible actor; there was a reason Phil won the awards and Clint was the stay-at-home dad. 

His shoulder was shoved gently as Phil moved by him, coming around the side of the couch to settle in next to Clint and pull him in for a hug, lips brushing over his forehead gently. 

“Thank you for taking him tonight, Clint. You should have heard him up there telling me all about all the fun places his Poppy took him and all the candy he got,” Phil smirked softly as he tilted his head to look into Clint’s face, a brow carefully arched. “Though, I’m curious about where all this candy went, already.”

Settled in against Phil, Clint shrugged and let his eyes fall shut again. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. We got all healthy treats and hundred dollar gift cards to spas.”

“Only hundred dollar ones? Man, my neighbors are getting cheap,” Phil teased, his hand rubbing up and down Clint’s chest soothingly. 

Clint’s head lulled back to rest on Phil’s shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips. He was just about to make a comment about cheapass Hollywood millionaires when a sound stopped him. The house was mostly quiet, save for the gentle pings of a piano playing from upstairs. The piano notes didn’t surprise or startle them, they knew it was just one of Milo’s sleep CDs playing, but it was the choice of music that had Clint sitting up and narrowing his eyes towards the stairs. He looked to his watch, then back at the stairs. 

“It’s eight-thirty...on Halloween...why. The hell. Is our son. Playing Christmas music?”

Phil huffed a soft laugh and shook his head, pulling Clint back down into his arms and kissing his neck gently. “Because for him, Halloween’s over and it’s time for the next holiday.”

“The next holiday is Thanksgiving, Phil. Not Christmas.”

“Yeah, but how many Thanksgiving songs do you know?”

Clint grumbled, not wanting to admit defeat there because, no, he really didn’t know of any Thanksgiving songs. Head rested back on Phil’s shoulder and he sighed, eyes closing again as the sounds of “It’s The Most Wonderful Time of the Year” quietly drifted down the stairs. 

“Guess this means we’ll have to start helping with a letter to Santa soon, won’t we?”

Behind him, Phil huffed a laugh, dropping a kiss to Clint’s shoulder again as he held him close. “Probably over breakfast tomorrow morning. At least the first draft of one.”

“Or the first of many.”

“That too.”


	2. Dear Santa...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil and Clint help Milo with his letter to Santa, and get a surprise of their own.

Milo Coulson sat at the coffee table in the living room, a pad of paper in front of him and an open package of Crayola 24 Color Crayons sitting next to it. The red and green missing from the line-up of bright and cheery colors and held instead in his still pudgy fists. He hadn’t quite decided yet if he liked writing with his left hand or his right, so more often than not, he used both.

The tip of his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth as he concentrated very hard on what he was doing. To anyone else the paper would have looked like a scribbled mess of lines, shapes, and backwards numbers, but to five-year-old Milo (who hadn’t yet really figured out how to write and make the words look how they were suppose to --his letters always wound up backwards or in the wrong order, so he chose not to use them) it was his letter to the greatest man there ever was and ever would be.

Santa Claus.

He was busy at work when Clint came in, still dressed in his purple sleeper pants and grey T-shirt, a cup of coffee in hand and a deep yawn stretching the features of his face. Clint took one look at his son, saw the red and green scribbles on the paper and instantly knew what was going on. He bit back a groan as he settled himself on the couch, holding his mug in one hand while the other came up to scrub at his wet hair, sending droplets of water flying everywhere. To him, it was still too early to start thinking about Christmas, but at least Milo had waited until November third to start working on letters to Santa, so that was something.

“What’cha workin’ on, Milsy?” Clint finally asked around the brim of his mug, even though he already knew the answer to his question.

“Writin’ ta Santa,” Was the little boy’s reply.

Clint nodded and rested his head back against the cushion of the couch. “Santa, of course. Gettin’ a jump on the holiday rush.”

“Mm, if he were doing that, he would have sent one in June,” Phil teased, stepping up to kiss his husband upside down, his own equally wet hair dripping down the side of his face. Clint grumbled against the kiss but smiled softly as Phil moved to sit next to him, pausing just long enough to kiss the little boy’s head and smooth down his hair.

“Mils? Why don’t you go get your lap table and come up here on the couch? Poppy and I will help you write to Santa, okay?” Phil was so good with their son, he always had been. Clint suspected a part of it had to do with the fact Milo was in fact Phil’s biological son so therefore Phil had a slightly better connection with him.

Nodding happily, Milo quickly dropped the crayons and went running for the corner of the spacious living room where his mass collection of toys, knick-knacks, and odds-n-ends were clustered together in a couple of ordinary laundry baskets. Despite the fact they lived in a house that cost ten times more than Clint’s entire building back in Bed-Stuy did, Phil and Clint did their best to give Milo a semi-normal upbringing. He wasn’t by any means a spoiled little boy. The toys were simple, educational and really anything a normal kid would get from Wal-Mart or Target (occasionally, as a very special treat, they would buy him _one_ overly expensive toy from FAO Schwarz --though when Clint brought [Patrick](http://www.fao.com/product/index.jsp?productId=3776365), the sixty-inch “pup”, back for Milo after his last trip out to New York, Phil was kind of hesitant to get their son another big, expensive toy for Christmas).

When Milo grabbed his paper and crayons off the coffee table and wiggled up between his two dad’s, the kid-sized lap desk settled on his knees, he looked up to Phil and Clint expectantly. Clint lofted an eyebrow as he shook his head, motioning to Phil with his coffee cup.

“Don’t look at me. Santa can’t read my writing. You better get Dada to help you, or you might wind up with sticks attached to strings or something instead of what you want.”

Milo giggled, wiggling himself closer to Phil and shifting the little desk so it was in his lap instead. Rolling his eyes at Clint’s excuse to get out of writing, Phil took the paper and a crayon from their son, thanking him before looking down at the piece of paper. He could at least translate the top line, backwards as it was.

_Dear Santa,_

Or as Milo had written it, _dere satan._ Chuckling, Phil’s grey eyes turned to Milo before he tore that page off and handed it to the little boy and picked up the crayon again.

“Here, how about you read it to me, and I’ll rewrite it so Santa will be able to read it when we send it off for you?” He asked, already setting to work to rewrite the greeting. Beside him, Milo gave a sage nod as he looked to the paper and began to “read” his scribbles.

_”Dear Santa,_

_I have been very good this year. This year I would like a new bike with no training wheels. A toy plane. A mannyten,”_

Phil lifted his head and scrunched his eyebrows in confusion. “Mannyten?”

“Manatee,” Clint corrected, smirking around his coffee and settling into the corner of the couch to watch them both in amusement.

“That’s what I said,” Milo protested, shaking his head, “a mannyten.”

“Right, a manatee. You mean like a toy stuffed animal?” Phil asked, writing the words down carefully so he didn’t accidentally put ‘mannyten’ down in place of ‘manatee’.

Milo huffed an over dramatic sigh as he shook his head, arms folded over his chest. “No, Dada. A _real_ one.” He sounded as if that had been the most ridiculous question in the world.

Phil’s eyebrow shot up again as he looked to the little boy. “A real one? Why would you want a real one?”

“Because,” Milo shrugged and acted as though his words were age old truths his fathers should have been aware of. “They always look so sad and cuddly, so if I have them, I can hug them all and then they won’t be sad all the time.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” Phil ignored the quiet snorts of laughter coming over the top of Milo’s head from Clint’s direction. This was clearly payback for...something. Phil wondered if his own logic at that age had been so straight forward and obscure.

Looking back to Milo, Phil gave another nod. “Okay, a bike, a toy plane, a manatee...anything else?”

Milo nodded. “Uh-huh. A mannyten and a little brother to play with.”

Clint suddenly choked on his coffee, his arm coming up to cover his mouth so the drink didn’t spray everywhere as he coughed and leaned forward. Phil’s hand paused over the paper, blinking down at it in surprise before looking to make sure Clint was okay and then down to their son. Milo stared back at him innocently.

“A...little brother?” He asked slowly, trying to make sure he’d heard him right.

“Uh-huh. Not a sister cuz that’s a girl an’ girls are gross.”

Clearing his throat, Clint shook his head and patted Milo’s shoulder to get his attention. “Girls aren’t gross,” He wheezed, reaching up to wipe his eyes and cough into his arm a couple more times. “Shouldn’t think of ‘em that way. Askin’ Santa for a little brother though, isn’t exactly how that works.”

“Why?”

Clint’s eyes lifted to meet Phil’s, wordlessly exchanging pathetic glances. How to explain it so their son would understand?

“Because,” Phil let the word drag out for a beat before continuing, “little brothers or sisters aren’t something Santa is able to make.”

“Yuh-huh! Nicky Johnson got a little brother for Christmas last year an’ he didn’t even _ask_ for one!”

“You mean he found out around Christmas he was going to have a little brother?” Clint asked cautiously, not sure what direction the conversation was going to turn and not quite sure he really wanted to give the ‘Where Babies Come From’ talk just yet.

“No. Santa brought him! Nicky woke up Christmas morning and his g’amma was there an’ said they had to go to the hospital because Santa brought him a special present an’ his mama an’ daddy were already there with it.”

Phil sighed heavily, running his hand down his face as he gently uttered, “Milo…”

Wide grey eyes looked between the two adults on either side of him, not sure why asking for a little brother was such a bad thing. Milo bit his bottom lip to keep from frowning, even as his eyes showed the uncertainty he was trying to hide. Beside him, Clint reached over to take the crayon and little desk from Phil, settling it into his own lap and offering Milo a soft smile as he carefully wrote down, _and a little brother to play with._

Looking back to him, Clint shrugged and winked. “Just in case. Anything else you wanted to add?”

Milo’s eyes brightened a bit and a small smile spread across his face as he shook his head, no.

“Okay, then here. Take the crayon, and sign your name. Remember how we showed you?” Clint shifted the lap desk back onto Milo’s lap and let him use the green crayon in his left hand to write his name. As a leftie himself, Clint wasn’t about to discourage the use of Milo’s choice of hands.

“One up-down, space, another up-down, and a V connecting them in the middle,” Clint instructed, watching Milo very slowly and very carefully create a capital M on the page at the bottom. “A small up-down with a freckle over it. A big up-down and a circle.”

Phil grinned as the name appeared on the page. Reaching his hand up, he ruffled Milo’s hair and pulled him in for a tight hug. “Good job, buddy! I think that’s the best job you’ve done yet with your name.”

Milo’s smile was bright and proud as he wiggled in place for a moment before slithering off the couch, leaving the lap desk and letter behind. He thanked his dads for their help with his letter, getting their solemn swear that they would mail it as soon as possible, before he darted off to go play in his game room down the hall.

Phil and Clint sat silently on the couch for a moment, Clint carefully folding the letter as if they were really going to put it into an envelope and send it off, and Phil picking awkwardly at his blue jeans. Neither of them had ever given much thought to having another child, nor that it was possible that Milo could want someone closer to his own age to play with.

Coughing softly, Clint held up the piece of paper to Phil. “Where are we going to hide them this year so he doesn’t find them?”

Reaching out to take it from him, Phil blinked from his own thoughts and shook his head. “I’ll put ‘em in the glovebox in my car. Don’t let me forget they’re there though.”

“Right. I won’t. Speaking of car...you should get going.” Clint leaned across to kiss Phil’s cheek lightly before he stood, pausing just long enough to clean up the crayon mess on the coffee table before starting for the kitchen to fix up breakfast for himself and Milo.

The letter deceptively heavy in his hand, Phil nodded and stood up, tucking it into his back pocket and pulling his shirt down over to hide it before going to kiss his son goodbye and make his way downtown for a table reading of the new movie he was going to be working on.

Eight more letters would find their way into his glovebox before Christmas. Each one asking for something different, though at least half of them reminding Santa that he’d still like that little brother if at all possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually have any kids, and it's been a long time since I've dealt with five-year-olds, so I apologize if Milo doesn't sound, act, whatever like a five-year-old would. I tried to think back to what I would do/say/act when I was that age (so to anyone who says a five-year-old can write, please don't get upset when you see that Milo cannot in fact actually write, it's all scribbles and shapes. I couldn't write actual words until I was like six or seven...so was basing it off personal experiences).


	3. Maybe...baby?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil and Clint discuss a possible present for Milo.

November 12th.  
~*~*~*~*~

Settled up on pillows against the headboard, Phil glanced up over his glasses as Clint slipped into their room, quietly closing the door behind him. It’d been Clint’s turn to tuck Milo in and tell him a bedtime story, and Phil’s turn to get the bed warmed up and ready for sleep. Though, given how much time the two men often had to themselves, sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

Clint dropped face first onto the mattress, groaning into his pillow before moving to wiggle himself in against his husband. He wrapped his arms around Phil’s middle, using his head to nudge away the book Phil had been reading and letting his nose press into the soft worn out T-shirt Phil used as a sleep shirt.

“I guess I’m done reading?” Phil asked, thoroughly amused, smirking while Clint nodded against his chest and grumbled something about obnoxious parents of even more obnoxious kindergarteners. Chuckling, he shook his head, fingers stroking through Clint’s hair and down the back of his neck.

“Want me to take your mind off the open house?” He murmured, his touch feather light and suggestive as his hands made their way down Clint’s back and came to rest on the man’s jeans waistband.

Clint lifted his head, looking into Phil’s eyes pleadingly. “Yes. Dear God yes. Please. I’m begging you. Anything to make me forget about multi-million dollar mothers and nannies sent by mothers who couldn’t be bothered, sitting around bitching about why their precious little Satan Spawn is getting held back and how much would it cost to make sure they weren’t. Which, by the way, Mils is in danger of if we can’t get him to actually write his letters and write them in some form of proper order. I’ll work with him on it. Us dyslexics gotta stick together.”

Huffing, Phil moved, rolling Clint onto his back and settling himself between his husband’s legs, already kissing and licking up Clint’s neck to suck gently on his ear. Hands roamed and slowly began stripping them both down, prepared to drag things out for as long as possible.

“You do that,” He murmured, kissing his way down Clint’s collarbone. Clint hummed softly, letting himself relax into the mattress and for Phil to explore as he pleased. He was just getting ready to slip his own hands down into Phil’s boxers and grip his rear in appreciation when his husband began murmuring into his chest.

“I’ve been thinking,” Phil paused his ministrations just long enough for short phrases before returning to mouthing at Clint’s chest. “Why _don’t_ we see ‘bout getting Milo a little brother for Christmas?”

Clint’s eyes shot wide as saucers as he quickly pushed Phil’s shoulders and scooted back to sit up. Confusion settled on Phil’s face, his hands coming to rest on Clint’s knees as he tilted his head questioningly.

“What?”

“ ‘What?’!” Clint exclaimed, blinking quickly and shaking his head. “You...dammit, Phil, you know how to kill a mood. You do remember how it’s physically impossible for _us_ to make a kid happen, right?”

Phil’s features dropped as he clenched his jaw. “Of course I remember. I wasn’t meaning it like that.”

“Then what? Because bringing it up in such a way while seducing me really seems like something better suited for a straight couple...and probably more likely a straight couple in a movie.” Clint instantly clamped his mouth shut, mentally kicking himself in the head for his choice of words. Sitting up a bit straighter, he reached out to catch Phil by the wrist as the man tried to pull back.

“Wait, that’s not --I didn’t mean it like that.”

Phil stopped trying to move away and instead leveled his husband with a cool glare. One of the many things he didn’t like about being an actor and attempting to have a somewhat normal life, was having people think his words better suited for the big screen than an actual conversation. “Pretty sure you did, Clint.”

“No, I just meant,” Clint paused, sighing heavily and running a hand down his face. “You could have picked a better time to bring this up. It’s not like it’s something you and I can really do anything about right now. It’s the whole, ‘Let’s make a baby,’ line and then the other is suppose to giggle and just…”

He trailed off when he saw the tick working at the corner of Phil’s jaw. Talking was only making things worse. Sitting forward, Clint scooted closer to his husband, reaching up to cup his cheek gently. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for making that sound like I thought you were feeding me a line from a cheesy romcom.”

Bringing their lips together, Clint slipped his hand around to cradle the back of Phil’s head as he kissed him gently. When they parted, Clint rested their foreheads together and sighed. Getting a little brother for Milo had been something neither of them had talked about, though both had thought about it at least a couple of times on their own since helping their son with his first letter to Santa.

“If we did the surrogate route again,” Clint murmured, his breath falling warm against Phil’s lips, “we run the risk of giving him a little sister. I’m pretty sure he’d get over it eventually, but there’s also the matter of wanting someone to play with, and he wouldn’t be able to play with them very much for quite awhile.”

Phil sat quiet for a long moment, eyes closed even while a small smile crept up on his face. He schooled his features carefully before speaking. “So, what are you suggesting?”

Smirking, Clint pressed his hand flat against Phil’s chest, pushing him back down onto the bed and settling over him. It was his turn to start up the foreplay.

“I’m suggesting,” he nipped at the tendon on his husband’s neck and licked his tongue over the place he’d bit. “That there’s a lot of kids in the foster care system who’d kill for an awesome place to call home and a brother to play with.”

Phil groaned softly as Clint worked the worn T-shirt off his body and kissed his way down over Phil’s chest. Smiling and feeling warmth bubble up inside of him, he ran his fingers through Clint’s hair, cupping his nape and pulling him back up so they could kiss again. His tongue came out to trace along the seam of Clint’s lips, gently parting them before he eased off and nudged their noses together.

“I’ll start contacting people in the morning, find out what needs to be done and where to start looking first.”

Grinning, Clint rolled onto his back, taking Phil with him as he went. “Good. That’s settled, then. Where were we?”

His own grin turning lecherous, Phil nipped hard at Clint’s collarbone as he finally shoved the man’s jeans and boxers down off his hips. “Right about here…”


	4. Weather Outside is Frightful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil and Clint take Milo to NYC for Thanksgiving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This...did not go the direction I'd planned on it to go. This is what happens when I listen to instrumental Christmas music (or any Christmas music really) for extended periods of time. I get maudlin...and in extreme cases wind up denouncing family-centric holidays. I think the sooner I get this finished, the better at this point....

Thanksgiving Day

~*~*~*~*~

 

“No!” It was a forceful little word, one that came accompanied with crossed arms, a protruding lower lip, and a glare that could freeze Hades himself. “I wanna go watch the parade! You promised!”

Milo stood in the middle of the penthouse, his winter coat zipped up and snow boots covering his feet. He was ready to go out and brave the fierce New York City weather that was coming down outside, so he didn’t understand why no one else was. Or why his parents kept telling him they weren’t going to watch the parade from the street.

“We _are_ going to watch the parade. We’re just gonna watch it from Uncle Tony’s window, instead, okay? C’mon, take your coat off and stay awhile.” Clint reached to pull the zipper down on his son’s coat, only to have mitten covered hands shove his away.

“No!”

“Milo Broderick Coulson. That’s _enough_.” Phil’s voice was stern, a tone that made their son snap his mouth shut and generally do as he was told far better than raising their voices back at him.

Pouting, Milo sniffled loudly as Clint unzipped his jacket and pulled it off his little arms, taking his mittens with the sleeves as they went. When Milo sniffled a second time and coughed fiercely into his arm, Clint raised an eyebrow. He passed the coat and mittens off to Phil before setting in to get the boots off their son as well.

“ _That’s_ why we’re not going down to street level to watch the parade.” Said Clint, taking the boots off and picking his little boy up to carry off to the window seat that overlooked a jam packed street below. “You’re still getting over your cold. People started lining up for this at six o’clock this morning, buddy. We’d never find a place to sit, now. Besides that, if we go stand outside in the cold and snow for three plus hours, you’re gonna wind up sick again. You don’t wanna be sick again, do you?”

Milo snuffled again, a horrifying sound that had Tony cringing and excusing himself just so he didn’t have to listen to that noise again. Bottom lip still sticking out, Milo squirmed out of Clint’s arms and went instead to curl up on Natasha’s lap at the window. A thick, warm blanket wrapped around him, swallowing him whole before delicate arms held him in place against her chest.

“Wanna go down _there_ an’ watch it,” he mumbled, head resting against Natasha’s shoulder and eyes glued to the crowds below.

Phil glanced up from where he was sitting at the grand dining room table, a new script laid out in front of him. “Milo, if you don’t stop pouting and start behaving, we won’t go see Santa next week and all he’ll bring you is a lump of coal for Christmas. You want that to happen?”

“ _No…_ ” was the whined response, followed by another pathetic cough.

Child sized winter gear in his arms, Clint took a deep breath and moved to put the little boy’s things back in the guest room with the other coats, gloves, and scarves. While in there, he grabbed up his own leather jacket to slip on. He wasn’t sick, and he wasn’t afraid of some snow and cold air --hell, he’d spent eighteen years in Iowa, and another twelve plus in New York, winter was nothing for him.

Without a word, Clint eased his way out the window and scurried up the fire escape to the roof. Snow was fresh in a soft blanket across the flat areas, coating everything in its shimmering flakes. From the roof of Tony’s building, it was the perfect view to watch the parade kick off down the block at 77th and Central Park West and make its way past them. The balloons were even more massive from that vantage point, and so far in the air that if Clint really tried and was careful, he could reach out and touch them.

Of all the years Clint lived in Brooklyn, he very rarely ever made it over to Manhattan for the parade; honestly, he very rarely even watched the parade. He’d seen it in _Miracle on 34th St_ , and a few times that he’d been up in time to catch it on TV, but other than that, he’d never had much interest in it. The crowds made him claustrophobic, and the fact people had to sometimes _pay_ just to get a good enough seat to sit in the cold for hours on end and watch balloons and floats go by just made no sense to him.

Still, he found himself on the roof, leaning against the edge with his head propped in his hand, watching the marching bands go through, followed by floats and clowns and balloons, and feeling a heaviness in his chest that he often got around the holidays. He’d promised Milo they’d get to watch the parade for real instead of on the television, he’d never said they’d do it from street level. By not taking him down to the streets to watch, Clint had essentially welched on his promise. He knew, of course, that it was only going to be a matter of about an hour (maybe two) before Milo got over it and found something else to fuss about, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

An arm nudged into his, drawing him from his thoughts and dragging his eyes away from the parade below. Tony stood next to him, bundled up like an Eskimo with two steaming mugs in hand. He passed one off to Clint before moving to lean against the raised edge next to him.

“You’re gonna freeze if you stay up here. At least get drunk first.”

Clint huffed a laugh, bringing his mug of coffee to his lips only to find it heavily spiked with Bailey’s. Sure it wasn’t even nine-thirty yet but, well, it had to have been five o’clock in Sydney or something, right?

“Thanks, Tony,” Clint mumbled around the edge of the cup, turning just in time to watch Flying Ace Snoopy go drifting by, getting caught on the wind and pulling more than a couple of its handlers up off the ground just a bit before being reined back in.

The two friends watched the parade in companionable silence for a few moments before Clint finally questioned what brought Tony to the roof. Not that it really mattered all that much, it just confused him a bit as Tony was known to be adamant about his dislike for snow and cold weather in general.

The eccentric billionaire waved a fine, Italian leather gloved hand in front of his face before taking another long sip from his mug. “The obnoxious sniffling going on down at my place was making me feel nauseous. Had to get out.”

Clint flinched a bit, casting him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. We’ll dose him up on his cold meds and knock him out before supper.”

“What? No. That’s cruel,” Tony objected, shaking his head and bringing his mug back to his lips with a shrug. “I’ll be sure Jarvis sets a small plate aside for him to have later.”

A bubble of laughter escaped Clint, an honest smile appearing on his face for the first time since he, Phil and Milo showed up at Tony’s place. He pulled another drink from his mug, still chuckling about his friend’s attempt to be considerate towards the sick little boy. Everyone knew, though, that Milo had Tony (and Natasha for that matter) wrapped right around his little fingers and that the billionaire would do anything to make sure his favorite “nephew” was taken care of.

“Holy shit,”

Clint turned his head, brow raised in question as he looked to Tony. “What?”

“You! You actually laughed! And Jesus Fuck, that’s a smile! I was starting to think you’d forgotten how to do both of those things!”

Biting his lips between his teeth, Clint sighed heavily and turned his attention back to the parade floats, eyes scanning over the marching bands below.

“Been kind of a rough week. Movie Phil was suppose to start working on fell through, so he got cast in some animated thing, so he hasn’t been around much. Milo got sick with this damn cold, and has decided that for whatever reason I’m his new arch nemesis and his Dada is the hero. So even though I’ve been home with Milo every day since birth, and have taken care of him while he’s sick and everything, he ignores me and fights me. Soon as Phil tells him the exact same thing I’d said, he shuts up and does what he’d been told. It’s like the terrible twos all over again.”

Beside him, Tony hummed thoughtfully. “Kid’s testing his boundaries seeing how much you’ll put up with before you snap. Pretty sure I did that the first eighteen years of my life.”

“Not helping,” Clint groaned, hand coming up to cover his eyes.

Tony chuckled, turning his back to the parade and tipping his head back to finish off his mug of coffee, nudging a clump of snow off the ledge and down onto the unsuspecting crowd below. Clint watched it land on some poor woman’s head, causing her shoulders to hunch up to her ears and a horrified expression cross her face.

“Look,” Stark finally said, turning to face Clint and elbow another clump of snow off, “when was the last time you an’ Mr. Hollywood had just a day for yourselves? Just the two of you?”

“About five years ago,” Clint answered, not even missing a beat.

Silence met that response, Tony blinking quickly as if he couldn’t quite process that answer. “Jesus, and you two are actually thinking about having another one?” He questioned in a disbelieving mumble.

“Alright, it’s settled then. Tomorrow, Bruce an’ I’ll take your kid out for that age old, obnoxious American tradition of Black Friday shopping. Just load us up with whatever kind of drugs he needs to keep from getting snot on everyone and everything, and we’ll take him off your hands for the day. You two can screw like rabbits, sleep all day, go out for a massage or something. Whatever.”

It was suddenly Clint’s turn to blink in surprise. He stammered for a moment before grinning like a fool. “You’d really do that?”

Tony scoffed as if he’d just been incredibly insulted. “Of course! What kind of uncle would I be if I didn’t spoil that kid rotten every once in awhile, since you two clearly are trying to avoid doing it yourselves.”

Laughing softly, Clint gave a small nod as he finished off his own coffee and handed the mug back to Tony. “Just don’t go buying him his own toy or candy store okay? I don’t want to have to explain to him why he can’t bring that sort of thing home with us.”

“What about his own franchise? Could start it up back in Malibu --”

“Beverly Hills, and no --”

“Snobs, and what about controlling interest in one?”

“No.”

“Ya know, I think I’ve started figuring out why Milo fights you on everything,” Tony teased, reaching up to shove Clint’s shoulder before starting off for the propped open stairway entrance. Tossing a smirk back over his own shoulder, he gave a small salute with the mugs as he started down into the darkened staircase.

“Make sure you shut this door when you come back down. See ya in awhile.”

A small smile spread across Clint’s face as his friend made his way down the stairs and disappeared from sight. Waiting a moment, Clint watched a couple more balloons go drifting by before he nudged snow off the side of the building for his own enjoyment and slipped back down the stairs. The promise of having Phil all to himself the next day was enough to make getting through the rest of Thanksgiving Day almost bearable.


	5. Adventures in Black Friday Shopping (with Tony Stark)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Phil and Clint don’t know, won’t kill Tony. Until they find out.

 

Black Friday (the day after Thanksgiving)

~*~*~*~*~

 

Tony flinched under the murderous stare of disbelief his boyfriend was giving him. It took a lot to completely and utterly piss off the generally laid back biologist, but there were a few times a year where Tony had pushed his luck one too many times and watched in strange fascination as Bruce totally lost it. To Bruce’s credit, and to Tony’s surprise, the man was mad --of course-- but not to the point of raging out and causing mass destruction all over FAO Schwarz.

Which, in hindsight was a good thing. The massive toy store was filled to capacity with people, pushing and shoving their way through, elbowing anyone who got in their way as they scrambled to get the latest, hottest toys, gadgets and best discounts. Bells were ringing in tandem from the registers, the cashiers struggling to keep up and make sure the customers stayed happy. Kids ran amuck, screaming with happiness and climbing on everything in sight, whether they were suppose to or not.

To have Bruce go into meltdown mode wouldn’t exactly be in their best interest at the moment.

“You _LOST HIM?_ ”

“No, now, see, there you go again. I prefer to think of it as...this being his spirit quest. He’s off somewhere in the store, fending for himself, becoming a man.” Tony tried to reason, his logic made sense to him and okay, maybe he was trying to charm himself out of trouble, could anyone really blame him? One minute he had Milo right there with him, the next he had some terrified looking eight-year-old in hand who screamed bloody murder and kicked him hard in the shin.

Ungrateful little pleb. Tony could have just saved him from a kidnapper or something, and that was the thanks he got?

The muscle in Bruce’s jaw ticked as his eyes narrowed threateningly at Tony. Tension was building up and evident in the man’s shoulders before he finally grabbed his phone out of his pocket and started punching numbers into it. Panic flashed across Tony’s face as he reached out, smacking the phone out of Bruce’s hand and not even caring when it hit the ground and was instantly kicked away from them.

Bruce stared at him with wide eyes. “What are you doing?!”

“What am _I_ doing? What are _you_ doing?”

“I was calling the police! Milo could be _anywhere_ by now! He could have been nabbed by someone who recognized him from those stupid tabloid pictures floating around!”

Tony shook his head frantically, hands waving in front of his face as he spun around and motioned off towards the registers. “No cops! We don’t need them! I’m sure Milo’s still in here, we’ll just go to the registers and have him paged. That’s a thing right? People do it all the time, don’t they?”

“Tony, he’s _five years old_! You really think he’s going to be able to find his way to the registers through this crowd? And what if he isn’t still in here? Then what? I’m not going to be the one to tell Phil and Clint that _you_ lost their son!”

Hissing and clamping his hand over Bruce’s mouth, Tony frowned deeply. “Will you stop saying that? I don’t _lose_ things, okay? Now let’s just split up and look for him. You go check out that giant floor piano thing. Kids love that thing.”

“You love that damn thing, too.”

“This isn’t about me, _Robert_ ,” Tony chided, tsking out his boyfriend’s given first name as he turned and started off towards the giant stuffed animals. “I’ll page you when I find him!”

Bruce cursed venomously under his breath as he spun on his heels, forgoing even trying to find his phone and moved instead for the balcony area the oversized floor piano was located. The two had only taken a handful of steps away from each other when the music in the store was cut and replaced instead with an overly cheery female voice.

_”Attention FAO Schwarz customers. We have a couple of lost adults in the store. Would Bruce Banner and Tony Stark please make your way to the Customer Service Counter located at the front right corner of the store? Again, would Bruce Banner and Tony Stark please make your way to the Customer Service Counter at the front of the store. Thank you, and have a very happy holiday season.”_

It was suddenly a race for the pair to get to the counter first. They both shoved and pushed their way through the crowd; Bruce at least apologizing and asking “excuse me,” while Tony simply told people to move and wedged himself between customers and the items they’d been reaching for.

Four sharp elbow jabs to the ribs and gut later, Tony was the first to break through the horde and stumble into the Customer Service Counter, followed quickly by a red faced and panting Bruce. Both men leaned heavily against the counter, struggling to catch their breath while the woman in front of them stared on in confusion and apprehension. Tony held a finger up, took a deep breath, and grinned flirtatiously.

“H-Hi,” He gasped out, leaning on his elbows. “We were paged? Tony Stark, Bruce Banner…”

Apprehension changed to a bright smile as the cashier --Stella, her name tag read-- nodded and looked between them both. “That’s right. Just a moment, please?” Turning, she moved further down the line from them, stooping down under the counter.

Tony glanced to Bruce, noticing that the man was just as anxious as he was. He reached over, carefully giving the man’s arm a squeeze just as Stella’s head came back into view. They watched while a small body crawled out from under the counter, eyes red and cheeks tear stained. The minute those little grey eyes landed on them though, a bright smile spread over Milo’s face and he broke free from the young woman’s hand.

“Uncle Tony! Uncle Bruce!”

A relieved laugh bubbled out of Tony at the same moment a heavy sigh escaped Bruce. The two men moved to the edge of the counter, stooping down to scoop the little boy up in their arms and hold him close. Stella smiled softly as she looked between the trio.

“Okay, well, given his reaction, I suppose I don’t really need to see your ID’s, but...it is store policy. If you don’t mind?”

“Of course,” Bruce shook his head, already pulling his wallet from his pocket and digging Tony’s out of his jeans pocket as well. He held the two open, displaying their New York driver’s licenses and smiled slightly as the woman nodded in approval. Beside him, Milo was sniffling loudly into Tony’s shoulder, arms clinging around the man’s neck as he shook and cried softly.

“Shhh, it’s okay. Hey, it’s okay. We found ya, didn’t we?” Tony soothed, trying not to cringe each time Milo snuffled right in his ear. Turning his head, the eccentric billionaire spotted a great red dragon on display. “Hey, look. It’s a giant dragon! You want the giant dragon?”

“Tony, I don’t think --”

“Let’s get you the giant dragon, okay? It’s for sale, right?” Tony asked the woman, ignoring his boyfriend’s protest and grinning widely as Stella nodded enthusiastically. “We’ll take it.”

“No, Tony, we weren’t suppose to buy him anything that big. His parents are going to ki--”

Tony turned to level Bruce with a sharp look. “They’ll kill us worse if they find out their kid was MIA for a half hour. Now shut up. We’re buying the giant dragon.” He spun his head back to Stella, giving her the nod and blindly swiping his wallet back from Bruce. Shifting Milo on his hip, he held the wallet out to him and smiled brightly.

“Here. See that black card with the face on it? Says ‘American Express’? Take it out and hand it to the nice lady and we’ll have Puff here delivered back to my place, okay?”

Tears forgotten, Milo grinned from ear to ear as he pulled the titanium credit card out of his uncle’s wallet and thrusted it out towards the woman. Tony very blatantly ignored the way Bruce’s right eye began to twitch, or the way he ground his teeth together. If the dragon kept Milo quiet about getting separated in the hectic toy store, at least until the trio were on the plane back to California, then no harm would befall him. It was just a matter of a bit of bribery and praying the kid kept his mouth shut.

Tony should have known that that wasn't going to happen...


	6. So Much for Good Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint and Milo take a trip to the mall and things don’t go quite the way Clint had hoped.

December 1st  
~*~*~*~*~

Phil had left before the sun was even up, needing to get to the studio by seven that morning if he had even the slightest hope of being home in time to take Milo to the mall to meet Santa. He’d been promising for over a month that he’d take the little boy, have it be just a day for the two of them: meet Santa, do some Christmas shopping, go out for pizza and then head home for a movie and snuggle time on the couch with Poppy.

Of course, that had been the plan _before_ the semi-trailer overturned on the highway, closing down all northbound lanes of traffic for well over two and a half hours, making Phil late to the studio. Before the writer of the script and the director got into it over artistic differences and forced Phil to record his lines for the same scene over fifty different times before finally moving on. And before his agent _insisted_ on having lunch with him to talk contract negotiations and the possibility of being George Bailey in a live performance of “Merry Christmas, George Bailey!” --a radio play production of “It’s a Wonderful Life” done just like it would have been back in the days before television.

When Clint had gotten the call at eleven-thirty that Phil probably wouldn’t be home until at least ten o’clock, the former Olympic archer did the first thing that came to mind. Offered to take Milo to the mall instead of Phil. After all, the little boy was already dressed and waiting to go (even if the original plan had been for them to go closer to four or five instead of before lunchtime), and Clint had Christmas shopping of his own he wanted to get done, so it worked out, really. Clint could get his present hunting done up, and the promise to Milo that he’d get to see Santa that day would still be intact. It was the perfect plan.

Or so Clint had thought.

Milo had behaved himself while they went from one shopping center to the next, browsing around and occasionally picking up a few things here or there for friends and family (Clint making a mental note as to which stores had the presents Milo had asked for, how many, how much they cost and anything small the little boy played with that could be used as a stocking stuffer). They had McDonald’s for lunch, Clint sitting back to watch Milo play on the Play Place for a little while before they started off on their way again (after carefully checking the little boy over for mysterious wet spots. Clint was no dummy. He knew what other people’s little Gremlins did in that ball pit). It was when they got to the mall that things went downhill, and fast.

It had been a tradition --as much as two years in a row could be counted as tradition-- that Phil take Milo to see Santa. Clint did his best to just shrug Milo’s fussing and crying off on the fact the little boy was no doubt tired and ready to crash for awhile. Still, it was a bit embarrassing to be standing in line, his son in his arms, swaying and rocking as the little boy sobbed that it wasn’t the same --he wanted his Dada; Dada had promised to take him to visit Santa. By the time they made it to the front of the line, Milo had sobbed himself out, his face hidden in the crook of Clint’s neck and just the occasional shuddered deep breath remained. Clint cast an apologetic smile to both Santa and his Elf helpers and graciously accepted the mini candy cane that was offered to them anyway.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Barton,” one of the Elf helpers whispered, leaning in closer so no one heard her, “he’s not the first one to cry himself to sleep waiting in line.”

Clint pressed his lips tight together as he nodded and exited the Winter Wonderland set up. Sighing heavily, he kissed the side of his son’s head gently and headed back for the car to take them home again.

~*~*~*~*~

When Phil got home, shortly after eight PM, he found Clint laid out on the couch, arm over his eyes and the TV still playing “Polar Express”. Milo was laid out on the floor in front of the television, wrapped up in blankets inside a nest of pillows and stuffed animals, eyes glued to the screen. It was actually a pretty adorable sight to be seen. Phil pulled his phone from his pocket, silently snapping off a picture or two before putting his phone away and stepping further into the living room.

“Hey Handsomes. How’d the visit to Sant--” Phil’s question and smile fell short as soon as a pint sized blur raced by him and up the stairs, leaving a trail of blankets and stuffed animals in its wake.

Blinking in confusion, he glanced to Clint, watching as his husband slowly lifted his arm from his face and sat up. Clint looked exhausted and Phil felt a thousand times worse that he hadn’t been home at the time he’d originally promised to be in order to give his husband a break from being a parent.

“I take it visiting Santa didn’t go so well?” Phil asked cautiously, already feeling the weight and tension in the air curling in around him.

Clint stood from the couch, shook his head and started for the kitchen. “No. It didn’t happen at all, actually.”

“It didn’t?” Phil pulled his jacket off and slipped out of his shoes before following into the kitchen. He’d thought for sure if Clint took Milo that they’d get to the mall in time and everything would be taken care of. “What happened? Did ya’s miss him?”

Taking the bottle of chocolate milk off the door, Clint leaned back against the counter and simply took a few gulps straight from the bottle. Phil wouldn’t call him on it; it was Clint’s milk after all, he could chug it without a glass if he wanted to. There was a slightly off look about his husband, a dull glint in his eyes that Phil had been seeing more and more of recently and he had a pretty good idea as to what --or who, rather-- was causing it.

The half empty bottle settled on the counter as Clint sighed heavily and folded his arms over his chest. “No, we got there in plenty of time. Kiddo just didn’t like the fact he’d been tricked apparently and that his Dada wasn’t the one who was taking him to see Santa like he’d been promised. For whatever reason, it’s not the same and totally unacceptable for me to take him to see Santa.”

And there it was. The bone deep hurt that Clint kept bottled up inside. Sure the man always had some kind of smartass remark to make about something, and could shrug off an insult like water off a duck, but Phil had learned a long time ago that Clint was a man who didn’t like to let on when he was hurting --at least not emotional pain.

Coming around the kitchen island, Phil slotted himself in against Clint, arms wrapped around him and head resting on his husband’s shoulder as he hugged him tight. He felt Clint tremble a bit under him just a moment before the slightly taller man pressed his own face to where neck met shoulder and breathed him in deeply.

“He sobbed the entire time we were in line. Kept carrying on about how you promised to take him and it wasn’t the same and he didn’t want see Santa anymore. By the time we got up there he was passed out so we just came home.” Clint mumbled, nosing into Phil’s neck and sighing into his shirt collar.

Phil frowned, his heart breaking for his husband. After all, it’d been Clint who stayed home day in and day out with their son, so why would the little boy put up such a fuss with Clint all the time? There’d been a time when Milo would scream and sob any time Clint was the one to leave, now it was Phil whom their son seemed to want to be around and listen to all the time.  
Pressing a kiss to Clint’s hair, Phil pulled back enough to look him in the face, stroking the backs of his fingers down his husband’s cheek gently. “I’ll go have a talk with him. See if I can get him straightened out a little bit.”

“No, Phil,” Clint sighed as he shook his head, pulling out of Phil’s grasp and moving to put the milk back in the refrigerator. “I don’t want you to be the bad guy. It’s okay. He’ll get over --”

“Clint, stop.” Phil’s hand caught Clint by the shoulder, stopping him before he could move further away. He turned the man back to face him, his hand cupping Clint’s cheek and thumb brushing just under his kaleidoscope colored eyes. “It’s not fair to you that you’re the one doing the most work with him, and yet you’re being treated as the bad guy. I’ll go talk to him. This has gone on long enough, and if neither of us say anything to him about it, he’s going to continue to think it’s okay for him to act and treat you the way he does.”

A soft smile spread across Phil’s face as he leaned in, pressing another soft kiss to Clint’s lips before stepping back and turning to start up the stairs. He heard the heavy, relieved sigh from behind him as he moved out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Generally, nine-out-of-ten times, Milo was a well behaved little boy who rarely acted out or gave them much trouble. But, he was still young, and what Phil remembered of when his nephews were growing up, acting out was something that was bound to happen from time to time.

Stopping outside Milo’s door, Phil rapped his knuckles against the wood gently. “Milo? Can I come in?”

“No…” Came the pouted reply a moment later. Rolling his eyes, Phil sighed and shook his head, entering the room anyway. The bed was empty, but then, he hadn’t expected to find the little boy hiding there to begin with. He moved further into the room and came to a stop alongside the bookcase, quirking an eyebrow as he looked up and found Milo perched in the corner with his back against the wall. The little boy may have had Phil’s DNA, but he certainly took on more of Clint’s traits and habits than either of them realized.

“You wanna come down from there, please? I think you and I need to talk for a little bit.”

Milo shook his head, burying his face in his arms as he pulled his knees closer to his chest.

“Milo. Come down.” Phil’s voice was quiet, but left no room for argument as he held his arms out and waited for his son to scoot to the edge of the bookcase and be placed back down on the floor again. “You know you’re not suppose to be sitting up there anyway. Now come down.”

Bottom lip tucked between his teeth, Milo wiggled his way into his father’s arms, his favorite blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. Even though he was pouting, the little boy nestled himself into Phil’s chest, nose pressed into the crook of his neck as he was carried back to the bed and carefully set down again. Phil knew, just from the way Milo was clinging and cuddling, that the boy could tell he was in trouble. It was a tactic to try and distract from being punished, one that very rarely ever worked.

“Milo, sit on the bed so we can talk. I want to know why you threw a fit at the mall with Poppy.” Phil extracted his son from around his neck and carefully kept his features neutral as Milo reluctantly set himself down in the middle of his bed, blanket wrapping around him again for security.

“ ‘Cause…” He mumbled, burying his face back in his arms to avoid looking Phil in the eyes.

“That’s not an answer, Milo. And it certainly isn’t a _good_ one either.” Phil frowned, shaking his head as he pulled a knee up onto the bed and turned to face him. “You’ve been acting up a lot lately, you know that? Especially when it comes to your Poppy. Why?”

Milo remained quiet, save for a soft sniffle.

Sighing, Phil decided to try a new approach. He folded his arms over his chest, quirked an eyebrow and just stared the little boy down.

“You know,” He started, “You’re making Poppy upset and hurt his feelings every time you act out and raise a fuss with him. Santa saw you at the mall today. He called me on my way home to tell me how you just kept sobbing and fighting Poppy because he was the one taking you to see Santa and not me.”

Wide and terrified grey eyes lifted to meet Phil’s and Phil could actually see Milo swallow hard as he listened silently.

“Santa said you really hurt Poppy’s feelings by causing that big fuss this afternoon, and if you don’t start behaving and stop giving him so much trouble, all the great things the Elves came up with for you, and all the presents Santa was going to bring to you are going to go to another little boy. One who didn’t make his Poppy sad and upset. You don’t want to get nothing but coal in your stocking, do you?”

“N-no…”

Phil smiled softly, reaching out to run his hand down Milo’s soft hair and brush it off to the side, out of his eyes. Bringing his hand down over a pudgy little cheek, Phil thumb across his cheekbone lightly. “I think you owe your Poppy an apology for hurting his feelings. Right?”

Milo nodded slowly, eyes falling and bottom lip protruding, trembling slightly as wetness beaded on his dark lashes.

“Good boy. So how about we go downstairs so you can apologize, and tomorrow the three of us go visit Santa? Would that be okay?”

“B-But...you promised just you an’ me would go…”

Phil paused, tilting his head a bit to regard his son carefully. Suddenly, things began to click in his mind. All the times in the past few weeks that Milo had acted out against Clint and resulted in Phil stepping in to get the boy to behave. Milo being upset because Phil wasn’t the one to take him out for the day like he’d been promised. He wasn’t acting out to be a brat or to cause trouble; he was acting out to get Phil’s attention. It was a realization that had the man’s heart breaking into a thousand tiny pieces. He’d been working more and more again, leaving less time to spend with his son and his husband; it was a miracle Clint wasn’t doing things to try and compete for his attention, too.

Finally understanding, Phil scooped his little boy up into his arms, cuddling him close as he kissed his head gently. “You’re right. I did promise that, didn’t I? Just you and me then. We’ll go visit Santa and go for pizza.”

Milo wiggled to regard his father skeptically. “ _Promise_ promise?”

“I triple promise and on all of my superhero collectables.” Phil answered solemnly, crossing his heart and giving a single nod in seriousness. He watched as the bright light returned to Milo’s eyes, the little boy forcing himself not to giggle and smile as he hunched his shoulders up to his ears, staring back at him hopefully.

“So, should we go downstairs and apologize to Poppy so I can call Santa back later and let him know you’re going to be good from now on and he can bring you presents Christmas Eve?” Phil asked, already moving to stand and start for the door. In his arms, Milo grinned brightly and nodded excitedly.

A smile of his own in place, Phil kissed the side of Milo’s head gently, bounding down the stairs in search of his husband, wanting to get things straightened out so feelings could mend --and so they could put Milo to bed and spend a few minutes to themselves, as well.

He’d just call in the next morning. There were other scenes the director could record. They’d be fine without him for one day. Milo was far more important, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems a lot of people were kind of looking forward to finding out how Phil and Clint reacted to hearing their son got lost at the toy store on Black Friday...and I'm sorry to disappoint by not having anything mentioned about that--or a chapter for it. Hadn't really planned to write a chapter for that...but I can tell you this!
> 
> Phil and Clint were told about what happened. Milo gushed all about it on the plane, telling his daddies how he did exactly what they always told him to do if he got separated from them: Find his way to a counter where an adult with a nameplate was working, tell them he got separated from his adults, and ask if he could stay at the counter until his adults found him again. Obviously, Phil and Clint were all "WHAT?!" and freaking out (though proud Milo remembered what they taught him) and silently debated what to do in order to seek revenge/punishment for Tony and Bruce. I believe it was Clint who ultimately decided to subscribe the pair up for International Cheese Monthly, where every month they received a new box of exotic cheeses --and being Clint, he made sure to put them on the Loyal Subscribers list so that they got EXTRA amounts, newsletters, magazines, and no doubt phone calls....every month...for the next four years. 
> 
> Not sure if the punishment fit the crime, but it's what happened even though it never got written. It might get mentioned later, we'll see.


	7. A Pinch of This, A Drop of That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas treat baking with Milo, Phil, and Clint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter is short, I'm sorry. So to make up for it, I included links to some fun and yummy stuffs at the end! Enjoy!

December 12th  
~*~*~*~*~

_Home Alone_ played on the TV in the kitchen, little Kevin defending his house against the hapless robbers Marv and Harry. Bright colored lights twinkled along the trim of the cupboards and door frames leading into the living room, and the smell of delicious sweets filled the air with warmth. Somewhere, the softly muted notes of Nat King Cole’s ‘Christmas Song’ played absently.

The day had been spent gathering ingredients to create any and every holiday treat imaginable. Lemon bars sat in the refrigerator next to the pan of red and green Jell-O Jigglers (the Jigglers cut in the shapes of stars, Santa’s hat, reindeer and Christmas trees), as two dishes of Rice Krispy Treats took up space on the shelf above. Sitting out on the kitchen island counter to cool were dozens of cookies, from thumbprint cookies with dabs of raspberry jam in the center, to peanut butter kiss ones; sugar cookies cut in various shapes and decorated carefully, and triple chocolate chip cookies that probably wouldn’t make it a full day before they were completely gone. Seven Layer Bars were carefully cut and stacked into a plastic container, tucked into the back of the freezer in hopes that they’d still be there for Christmas Eve, and an Angel Food cake sat on a wire rack on the counter next to the stove.

It was a sight worthy of any holiday cooking magazine. With just one flaw.

White bursts of powder covered nearly every inch of the room. An impromptu “snowball” fight occurred after hours spent creating the delicious goodies. Everywhere a person turned, there was an imprint of flour splattered across a flat surface. The TV screen was ghostly pale while the fine wood cabinets were nearly unrecognizable under all the white that had landed on them in the scuffle.

It was a waste of flour, but it was completely worth it to hear the shrieks of laughter that came from Milo as he scurried from one side of the kitchen to the other, hiding wherever he could only to scream out when his parents found him and tossed more flour at him. The bright smiles that crossed all three of their faces while they laughed and played about was undoubtedly the best part of the whole experience. To have time, the three of them together, doing the baking and fake-snowball fight was a memory that neither Phil nor Clint would give up for anything.

A trail of flour moved from the kitchen into the living room, ending at the couch. Phil reclined back into the cushions, head tilted back and breathing soft, level. His flyaway hair was powdered white, flour goop dried to his cheeks and neck. In his arms laid his husband, a similar sight to be seen--if not a bit worse (happens when you slip and fall into a giant patch of flour). Nestled in between them, mouth hanging slightly open and peacefully asleep, was Milo; covered head to toe in white flour.

The mess was going to be one hell of a pain to clean up later, once they’d woken from their naps, and showers were definitely going to have to happen before bed, but in the end it didn’t matter. They’d had fun together; long over due family activities that ended in tears of laughter rolling down their cheeks and puppy-pile nap times were always worth whatever mess had been made in the process.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Jell-O Jigglers](http://www.kraftrecipes.com/recipes/jell-o-jigglers-53920.aspx)
> 
> [Thumbprint Cookies](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ina-garten/jam-thumbprint-cookies-recipe/index.html)
> 
> [Peanut Butter Kiss Cookies](http://www.bettycrocker.com/recipes/peanut-butter-chocolate-candy-cookies/a3563f6e-96b0-443f-ae0a-53cef4be6db6)
> 
> [Seven Layer Bars](http://www.browneyedbaker.com/2009/06/17/seven-layer-bars/)
> 
> [Flour Snowball fights](http://www.playcreateexplore.org/2012/08/summer-snowball-fight-with-fluffy-stuff.html) (obviously, this is not the way it's done in the chapter, but it's awesome anyways!)


End file.
